


what you’re worth

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Hate Sex, Implied Past Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Turgon of Gondolin, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Innumerable Stars 2020, M/M, Past Elenwë/Turgon of Gondolin, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Self-Hatred, Spanking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, past Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, political sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Maedhros lays with his cousin. No, not that one. Never him, never again.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Turgon of Gondolin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	what you’re worth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falindis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/gifts).



> I saw your prompt and immediately knew I had to write it. This ship is just so delightfully fucked up and exactly my jam!

“Ah, decided to treat me with some respect, have you?” Maedhros drawls as Turukáno pushes him face-first into the bed. “Let me have a little comfort, hmm?”

He supposes he should be grateful it’s a soft surface this time, and not the table Turukáno had restrained him to at their last “war counsel,” but an ugly tension curls in his stomach as he grips the soft sheets with his hand. The last time he’d been taken on a bed like this—

Turukáno growls and rips off Maedhros’ breeches. “Must you _talk_ so much?” he hisses, making quick work of removing his own clothes.

Maedhros laughs into a pillow. “Would you order me to be silent, my King? You know, your brother preferred me to be _quite_ loud—”

Turukáno slaps his ass so firmly Maedhros cannot help but moan. Instinctively he lifts himself back up for more, momentarily expecting to hear Findekáno’s bright laughter, some compliment about how pretty he looked turning red like that—but Findekáno is not here. Findekáno will never be here again. Findekáno is dead, and it is his stiff-necked, moralistic, hypocritical brother who is with Maedhros instead.

“Disgusting,” Turukáno states. “How many times have I told you not to bring him up when we...”

“Fuck?” Maedhros suggests, hoping to provoke him into another slap. When that does nothing, he adds, “Make _love_ , your Majesty?”

 _Ahhh_ , there it is. Turukáno hits him again, and Maedhros bites his lip, prepared this time.

“I have never _loved_ you, _cousin_ ,” Turukáno snarls. “I hate you and your father and all your bastard brothers—”

“Now, would you like it if I spoke of _your_ mother that way?”

Another strike, and it is all Maedhros can do not to reach down and stroke himself. It feels good, in a way that this seduction has not felt before. Findekáno would hurt him if he asked, yes, but he never _meant_ it. And after all these long years, Maedhros cannot help but crave such harshness. It is what he deserves, for letting Finno die. It is what he deserves, for turning around and fucking his lover’s brother. It is what he deserves, for everything he has done and failed to do.

“Enough of this,” Turukáno says abruptly, and spreads Maedhros’ cheeks. He stiffens, bracing himself to be entered punishingly, without any preparation. He’s taken it before _(darkness, and not because he’s blindfolded; restraints, and not because he asked for them; pain and pleasure sparking within him, and not because he wanted it—)_ and he can take it again; he’s tough. He’s had to learn to be tough, no matter the tenderness Findekáno cultivated within him. That softness died with Finno.

But Turukáno does not penetrate him in one long and agonizing thrust. Instead there is the sound of a bottle opening, and Maedhros grunts in surprise as long, thin fingers probe at his entrance. Turukáno makes quick work of opening him up, but he does it with a confidence and competence that surprises him.

“Done this before, have you?” he inquires, swallowing a gasp as Turukáno brushes the spot within him that makes his hröa sing with pleasure.

“Shut up,” Turukáno mutters.

“I suppose your wife could have allowed this,” Maedhros muses, utterly unconcerned with his king’s orders. He’ll have to do better than that if he wants him to listen. “Or—and I never thought you looked to néri until recently, but perhaps this development is not so new after all. Did you dally with someone before her? Or... _after_ her?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Turukáno repeats, an edge to his voice, and he curls his fingers viciously. Maedhros lets out a humiliated whine, but does not obey.

“Who was it—one of your lords? Ecthelion is handsome as they come, and I don’t know anyone who could turn down Laurefindil. Or maybe it was even sooner after she died, I know Findaráto will sleep with anything that moves—”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Turukáno bellows, and removes his fingers, finally giving Maedhros what he wants, what he needs, what he deserves. He’s not quite stretched enough, and he burns as Turukáno shoves his cock inside him, and that quite effectively shuts him up, at least when it comes to words. He is not quite so silent when it comes to other noises, however.

He’s grateful he can’t see Turukáno’s face. He looks so like Finno, especially when Maedhros is aroused enough for his mind to fog, and if he is to most efficiently and effectively break Turukáno down, the moments where he uses his dead lover against him must be calculated or else it will be _Maedhros_ who breaks.

They’d fucked before, but not like this; Turukáno had never taken the initiative to fuck him properly, always preferring to use his mouth or his thighs or his hand. But now Turukáno vents his fury, his guilt, his self-hatred deep into Maedhros with every thrust, and he takes it all. He’s made for this, in a way. He has long experience suffering the wrath of others. The respite with Findekáno, long and beautiful as it was, could never have been more than a reprieve from his service to cruel and calculating kings.

“I hate you,” Turukáno growls, gripping his thighs and picking up his pace. “You and your clever mouth, you and your pretension, you and your misplaced assurance that you’re _worth_ something—”

“Don’t insult me,” Maedhros rasps. “I know I’m not good for anything other than war and—and this.”

Turukáno slaps him again, and Maedhros moans long and hard, the sting of his ass and the friction of his cock between his stomach and the sheets enough to bring him off. He clenches tight around Turukáno, goading him to fuck him harder, faster, to the edge of pain and beyond—

“Tell me, Turno, did you miss this?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder, and is shocked by the utter _grief_ on his cousin’s face. He expected rage, hatred, not—not _this_. “...Turno?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Turno snaps, and hits him again as he buries himself deep within Maedhros and lets himself go. He shudders and spills, and Maedhros lets his eyes flutter shut, just for a moment indulging in the fantasy that he’s back in Himring, that the brown hand clutching at his shoulder is Finno’s, that the hot seed filling him up is a lover’s gift and not the mark of a king’s ownership.

But Findekáno is dead. It is Turukáno who pulls out of him with a quiet sob, Turukáno who throws a rag at him, Turukáno who retreats into his closet and refuses to meet his eye.

For the first time, Maedhros realizes that Turukáno might be, somehow, just as broken as he is.

He cannot consider that now. He is numb as he cleans himself up, strips the bed of its sheets, redresses himself, does everything he once did as a prisoner in Angband once his masters were done with him. But this is different, because he chose this, he incited this. He wanted to break Turukáno down, to use him, to control him...but now that it seems his plan is working, doubt rises to the surface of his mind.

 _What would Findekáno think?_ he wonders, and shudders.

“Get out,” Turukáno says in a low rumble, emerging from the darkness of his closet. “I will summon you when I need you, and not a moment sooner.”

“Turno...” Maedhros begins, unsure what he means to say, unsure of everything, now.

“I said _get out_.”

He bows smoothly to his king, cold resolve overtaking him once more. “Yes, your Majesty,” he murmurs, and departs.

_It doesn’t matter what he’d think. He’s gone, and after all I’ve done and will do, it is not as if I’ll ever see him again._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
